


Don't Call It A Comeback

by orphan_account



Category: Gymnastics RPF, Olympics RPF, Swimming RPF
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dancing, Dancing Lessons, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Injury Recovery, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2015-09-30
Packaged: 2018-02-09 02:18:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1965198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>2014 finds Michael Phelps secretly training for his bright and shining return to the world of Olympic swimming. A new training regimen has him working his ass off so much so that when true love walks right out of a romance novel and into his life he almost misses it. Almost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started this fic *before* Michael came out of retirement so the timeline is gonna be a little off.

* * *

They’ve been secretly plotting his return to swimming since the day he qualified for Beijing. Michael and Bob decided back then that he’d go to London, officially ‘ _retire_ ’ to get everyone off his back, and then pull a Jay-Z and step back onto the scene when no one expected it, even better than before. Bob advised him to just act normal in the interim. “Go do whatever it is young athletes with more money than common sense do these days.” Bob had said, waving a hand dismissively.

So that’s what Michael does. He acts normal.

He takes a trip to the Maldives with some of his bros.

He grows a beard that makes him look like a pretentious hipster on steroids.

He goes to Vegas and parties with DeadMau5.

He shaves his beard.

He gets himself a supermodel girlfriend.

He dumps his supermodel girlfriend and gets a different supermodel girlfriend, then dumps her too.

He plays numerous rounds of golf and rubs elbows with some of his childhood heroes.

He takes his mom to the Super Bowl then cries when his team wins.

He does a few television spots and drinks more champagne than any athlete should.

And that’s how it goes for a full two years after London. Michael is bored by the six month mark and after eight months he’s practically begging Bob to get him back into training. But when Bob does finally call him back in for training things aren’t exactly the way Michael expected them to be. “You’re too bulky,” Bob says. “That Strongman shit might work for Lochte but his bone structure is different than yours. We need to get you to thin. It’ll put less stress on your joints and help you sit better in the water.”

“And how exactly do we do that?” Michael asks.

The sides of Bob’s lips turn up into a positively impish grin as he goes through his latest and greatest list of ideas. It reads like this:

  * yoga for balance, flexibility, and focus
  * pilates to help with muscle symmetry
  * vocal lessons to improve lung capacity, breathing precision, and diaphragm strength
  * plyometrics for speed and endurance
  * calisthenics and circuit training for lean muscle mass



“Is this all you got?” Michael asks in a cocky tone once Bob has said everything he has listed on his little square of CVS graph paper.

“Not even close,” Bob smiles manically, flipping the paper over. “Not even close.”

\--

“Fucking Hell!” Michael curses out loud after his body collides with the hardwood floor of the dance studio for the third time in less than five minutes. He’s angry that he can’t get all the way through the routine that his dance instructor, Ms. Eliadas, has choreographed for him. His lessons have been a mix of classical ballroom, flamenco, salsa, rhythmic, jazz, and traditional ballet. The dancing, along with the rest of his peculiar exercise routine has him in the best shape of his life. He's a hundred and ninety pounds; skinny as a toothpick turned sideways but every inch of him corded muscle and tight sinew despite the fact that he still eats over ten thousand calories a day.

Bob has taken to joking about how Michael is single handedly keeping the Little Debbie Snack Company in business because of the fact that he’s practically living off their sugary confections; box after box of Nutty Bars, Oatmeal Pies, Zebra Cakes, Honey Buns, Cosmic Brownies, and Cinnamon Streusel Cakes crammed into the shelves of Michael’s pantry. He’s swimming at record breaking pace and racking up the best split times he’s ever had but for some ungodly reason he can’t pull off a double pirouette to save his life.

“Get up, Michael,” Ms. Eliadas barks in her staccato Spanish accent. “I say when you sit down and I say you sit down when you’re dead! Up! Up! Up!” She claps her hands together three times- her way of telling him to get back into first position.

“I hate her more than Bob,” Michael thinks to himself as he hauls his tired body upright. He hurts in places he didn’t know he had and every inhale has him feeling like an elephant is sitting on his chest but he won’t give up.

No.

That would be like losing.

And Michael Phelps doesn’t like to lose.

At anything.

“You put blood on my floor before this day is over, Boy,” Ms. Eliadas says sharply. Michael knows exactly what she means.

She means that he won’t get to rest until he’s worked himself and his feet so hard that they start bleeding through his pretty little beige canvas dance shoes. Then she’ll give him a smirk and declare the lesson over before flouncing off to her office at the back of the studio. Michael will then pack up his gym bag and limp to his car without even taking off his dance gear.

Later, once he’s home he’ll peel each shoe free from the foot it’s on and wince when the fabric pulls at the newly forming scabs. He’ll soak his feet, remembering how they throbbed with pain so much that he could barely bring himself to press down on the gas pedal on his way home. After that he’ll ice the bruises he obtained from his many falls and hobble off to bed so tired that he’s asleep the second his body meets the mattress.

The last thought that will run through his exhausted mind before he slips easily into unconsciousness is, “Fuck.... it’s only Monday.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2014 finds Michael Phelps secretly training for his bright and shining return to the world of Olympic swimming. A new training regimen has him working his ass off so much so that when true love walks right out of a romance novel and into his life he almost misses it. Almost.

* * *

Michael once again finds himself walking in to Ms. Eliadas’s studio for his bi-weekly, early morning dance lesson just as he has for the past three months of his new training regimen. It’s a dreary Thursday and even though the sun is still newly risen in the sky it’s been drizzling outside for almost two hours. Michael walks in and soon discovers that while the front door is unlocked, Ms. Eliadas is nowhere to be found. He checks the bathroom and the changing room and her office and even the utility closet but doesn’t find her. This is not good.

Michael can’t call Bob because he will probably blame Michael for whatever horrible fate has befallen Ms. Eliadas. He also can’t just skip out on practice because if it turns out that Ms. Eliadas is just running late then she’ll tell Bob that Michael skived off class and then he’ll have the unholy wrath of his longtime coach to deal with.

“Fuck,” Michael curses. He curses again just because he can. “Fuck. Fuck. Fucking fuck.”

“I’m fairly certain it is too early in the morning for such profane exclamations.” an airy, disembodied voice says from somewhere behind him. Michael whips his head around, startles a bit, thinking “GHOST!” but he calms down once he sees that the voice actually belongs to someone.

The owner of the voice is a short, thin man with pale blue eyes the color of pool water and a milky complexion. He is leaning against the ballet barre at the opposite end of the studio. His tow blonde hair is neatly combed into a Don Draper-esque style: tight on the sides with a sharp part on the left side of his head. The man is dressed well; a tight black t-shirt neatly tucked into a pair of well-fitting slacks held up by a black leather belt with a rather plain silver buckle. He’s also wearing what looks to be a very expensive pair of all black Latin ballroom shoes, most likely custom made considering the man’s almost impossibly small feet.

“Hem-Hem,” the stranger clears his throat when he notices that Michael’s practically checking him out. Michael blushes slightly and finally looks away. For some strange reason Michael can’t help but feel that he knows this man; it’s got something to do with his eyes. You don’t forget that shade of blue easily, especially when you’re a swimmer.

“Uh… do you know where Ms. Eliadas is?” Michael asks, trying to rid the room of some of it’s stifling awkwardness.

“She is unfit to teach this morning,” the man in black says. “I will be your instructor for today.”

“Okay,” Michael says before introducing himself. “I’m Michael.” He holds his hand out for a customary handshake but his gesture is met with only the slightest of head nods.

“I know who you are,” the man says. He has a slight accent but Michael can’t seem to place it. “My name is Alexander. You may call me Sasha.”

“Sasha?” Michael queries. “That’s Russian isn’t it? Are you from Russia?”

“Belarus, actually.” Sasha corrects. “But that’s not important. Ms. Eliadas wants us to practice the samba today. From what she lead me to believe, your footwork is positively atrocious.”

“Do I...uh, know you from somewhere?” Michael asks, ignoring the fact that he has just been intelligently insulted.

“Beijing,” Sasha answers curtly.

“Beijing?” Michael says.

“Yes, Beijing” Sasha fires back, the elaborates. “I was on the U.S. men’s gymnastics team.”

“Oh, yeah.” Michael nods. “You guys won bronze in the team all-around.”

“We did,” Sasha confirms, then adds, “but that was a long time ago. I don’t compete anymore.”

“Can I ask why?” Michael inquires.

“Car accident,” Sasha says in a clipped tone. “Three cracked vertebrae and two slipped discs. I couldn’t do so much as a cartwheel even if I wanted to.”

“I’m sorry. It wasn’t my place to ask.” Michael murmurs softly.

“No it wasn’t,” Sasha agrees. “I suggest you get changed now. We have a lot of ground to cover before you’re where Ms. Eliadas wants you to be. But I must warn you though; I’m not like Ms. Eliadas.”

"You’re not?” Michael asks in a relieved voice.

Sasha lets out a harsh bark of laughter that makes the hair on the back of Michael’s neck stand up.

“Oh no, Michael. I’m nothing like her.” Sasha smirks devilishly. “I’m much, much worse.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2014 finds Michael Phelps secretly training for his bright and shining return to the world of Olympic swimming. A new training regimen has him working his ass off so much so that when true love walks right out of a romance novel and into his life he almost misses it. Almost.

* * *

Sasha wasn’t lying when he said he was much worse than Ms. Eliadas. The man is a fucking slave driver. He has Michael run through a whole new samba routine and only stops long enough to insult him for doing it wrong.

"You're not leading. You're letting me lead. The man is supposed to lead." Sasha scolds him on several occasions as Michael fumbles to keep up with the steps and hold his upper body in the correct frame as they circle an invisible point on the floor of the studio. After being yelled at for the better part of a half-hour Michael's had enough. Sasha tops things off by snarling out, "Act like you've actually got a cock between your stubby little legs and lead!” and that’s all Michael can take.

He proceeds to lose his fucking shit.

“I can’t fucking do this!” Michael exclaims frustratedly, throwing up his hands. “I’m not a dancer; I’m a swimmer. I’m supposed to be in the goddamned water, not on a dance floor. I'm not made for this!”

"Bullshit!" Sasha fires back. "Everyone is made to dance. Dancing is like sex. The same basic principles apply. Passion, rhythm, coordination. If you possess those qualities then you can fuck, and if you can fuck, you can dance. So tell me, Mr. Phelps, can you fuck?"

"Better than anyone you've ever been with." Michael growls.

"Alright then," Sasha nods decisively. "Show me." The little yelp that comes out of Sasha’s throat when Michael pulls Sasha’s body towards his own and takes up frame leaves the swimmer smirking.

“Like I said,” Michael grates. “Better than anyone you’ve ever been with.”


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

Michael finally gets the samba routine down after running through it a dozen times. When Sasha declares that they’re done for the day he lets his body sink to the floor and lays there, spread out like a dead starfish.

He’s sweaty and breathless and has aches in weird places. Underneath the ache there lies the buzzing feeling of endorphins rushing throughout his system. His spine feels like Jell-O and the arches of his feet are warm. “Man, you were right,” Michael sighs. “It really is like fucking.”

Sasha stands over him cool, calm, and collected without a hair out of place or even a drop of sweat on his forehead to attest for the grueling workout they’ve both just subjected their bodies to. “I told you so,” he says. “Ms. Eliadas should be back in tomorrow to continue your lessons.”

Michael raises himself up onto his elbows as Sasha turns and begins to walk away. He asks, “But what about you?”

"I’m needed elsewhere,” Sasha replies.

“Oh,” Michael says, barely finds his voice enough to say, “Well, I really liked what we did today. It went a lot better than some of my other lessons. I mean, uh… I wouldn’t mind if you showed your face around here a little more. Especially when I'm here too.”

The compliment makes Sasha square his shoulders, his whole countenance lifting. “It’s true; we were very productive today,” he states, trying to hide the small smile that’s trying to take over his whole face. “But that’s because you were challenged in the right way. If you want a lion to roar, you don’t offer it a lollipop; you crack a whip at it.”

“That’s a pretty simple way to look at things,” Michael replies. “Lions and lollipops.”

“It’s actually not that simple at all,” Sasha smirks. There’s a spark of fiery mischief in his eyes when he says, “Tell me, Mr. Phelps, what do you know about the tango?”


End file.
